


Of An Evening

by i_eat_men_like_air



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Everyone On Erebus Is Fucking, Foursome - M/M/M/M, It Is A Lovely Day On Erebus And You Are An Oblivious Christian, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character(s), Rimming, Threesome - M/M/M, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 17:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30143136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_eat_men_like_air/pseuds/i_eat_men_like_air
Summary: Sir John goes on his evening walk around the lower deck, and is pleased to hear the men getting along famously!Written for The Terror Bingo prompt 'Sir John Franklin'.
Relationships: Edward Couch/Robert Orme Sargent, Graham Gore/Thomas Hartnell, Harry D. S. Goodsir/Stephen S. Stanley, Henry T.D. Le Vesconte/George Hodgson/John Irving/Edward Little, James Fitzjames/Thomas Blanky/Francis Crozier, James Reid/James Fairholme, John Bridgens/Henry "Harry" Peglar/Henry Foster Collins, John Gregory/John Weekes/Thomas Terry
Comments: 11
Kudos: 21
Collections: The Terror Bingo





	Of An Evening

It is a bright, sunny evening in the Arctic, and Sir John Franklin is on his way down from the main deck, climbing gingerly down the various ladders and steps, heading for his cabin. He is in good spirits; the weather is calm, the ships are in good condition, and the men are well. 

He pauses, smiling, at the door of the warrant officer’s cabin. There are muffled voices coming from inside, Gregory, Terry and Weekes are clearly having some sort of exciting discussion. He cannot make out the words, but that is not such a problem; he is glad that the three men are getting along. The voices still a little, as he pauses by the door, and Sir John smiles; he is not trying to invade their privacy, he is simply pleased that they are friendly with one another.

* * *

_ John Gregory, Thomas Terry and John Weekes freeze as they hear footsteps still outside the door. The two Johns are at either end of Thomas, a cock in his mouth and a cock in his arse. John (Weekes) had been murmuring filth into Thomas’ ear, and John (Gregory) had been urging him on. The footsteps stilled all movement and speech from the men, and both Johns stare at one another with wide, terrified eyes until they move along. Thomas mumbles something, around the thickness of John (Gregory)’s prick, to the effect of ‘Get a bloody move on', and their tryst continues. _

* * *

Most evenings, when he returns from up top, he likes to do a little circuit of the lower decks. ‘ _ Good for your health, and good for morale! _ ’ he thinks, knowing that a great many men draw their courage from him, and that Lady Jane would approve of him having a little walk, of an evening. He pauses, once again, outside the cabin of Mr. Goodsir. ‘ _ Such a charming young man! _ ’ he thinks to himself, ‘ _ always so eager to share his wonderful discoveries’.  _ Sir John hears a steady banging noise from inside the Assistant Surgeon’s cabin, putting him in mind of a hammer and nails.  _ ‘Perhaps he is making something for one of those wonderful creatures he pulls up from the depths!’  _ he thinks, his face a picture of excitement. He did so enjoy it when Mr. Goodsir found some new, fascinating piece of flora or fauna.

* * *

_ Harry Goodsir stares up at Dr. Stanley, every muscle in his body tensing as he heard the footsteps come to a stop outside his cabin door. Stanley frowns down at him, his head cocked to one side and listening intently, his prick firmly ensconced in the tight, slick heat of Harry’s arse. Harry bites down in his sleeve as Stanley begins to move again, this time far slower than before, rubbing the head of his prick steadily against that wonderful place inside Harry that makes him feel gelatinous. The footsteps pass, slowly, and both men sigh in relief, returning wholeheartedly to the liaison at their usual, brutal pace.  _

* * *

Sir John feels a slight bounce in his step as he moves on from Mr. Goodsir’s cabin; excited to see what he is working on. He pauses again, briefly, outside the gun room steward’s pantry, but does not hear anything there. It was rare for Mr. Aylmore to be busy with his work at such an hour, but it was always part of Sir John’s routine to check; just in case. 

* * *

_ Richard Aylmore is frigging himself into a frenzy when he hears the footsteps halt outside the pantry door. He has two fingers in his arse, and an oil-slick fist around his prick, and he has no idea how he will explain himself if someone knocks on the door. He exhales, slowly, as the footsteps move on, and twists his fingers so hard that his legs give way. _

* * *

There is also silence from Mr. Hoar’s cabin. Sir John expects that his steward will be in his own cabin at the moment, or perhaps the wardroom. Mr. Hoar is a decent man, if a little quiet, and he works hard. 

With no need to listen at Mr. Hoar’s cabin, Sir John walks a diagonal line under the main hatch, and below the ladders, smiling jovially at a couple of the ship’s boys who are warming their hands before heading above. He walks, hands folded cheerfully behind his back, until he reaches Mr. Collins’ cabin. There is a gentle gasp from inside, and Sir John frowns sympathetically; the man is having a nightmare, most probably as a result of Mr. Orrin’s death. He knows the two men had been decent friends, and spares a prayer for the pair of them.

* * *

_ Henry Collins’ eyes go wide as he hears footsteps outside the door. Harry Peglar and John Bridgens both still in turn, all three men unblinking and frozen; a pornographic tableau. Harry is sandwiched between Henry and John, his prick is buried in Henry’s arse, and John is deep inside his arse in turn. They moved comfortably together, but the footsteps outside the cabin door have brought all proceedings to a halt. John looks down at Henry, who looks up at Harry, who twists his head to look at John, all three men a picture of nervous, twitching terror. Harry lets out a sigh, as the footsteps head off, and kisses Henry softly. He had come aboard with Captain Crozier, Mr. Blanky, and Lieutenants Little, Irving, and Hodgson, saying that he had some small chores to do upon Erebus, as a favour to one of the crew. He whimpers as John begins fucking him again, the thick ring through the head of his cock rubbing beautifully against Harry’s insides. Henry shivers, wrapping his big, broad arms around Harry and John, as the three of them begin to move in tandem, gently building one another to release. _

* * *

Sir John nods solemnly as he continues his walk, praying quietly that Mr. Collins will find some peace in the Good Lord. It is a terrible shame, to lose one’s crewmates, and particularly to lose one who is such a fine friend. He prays the Mr. Orrin will be the last crewman lost; it would be such a pity to lose anyone else. It is Mr. Couch’s cabin, that is next on his stroll, and Sir John stops quietly outside the room, waiting for any sign of life from within. He smiles, pleased, as he hears a grunt - almost a snore - from Mr. Couch. Hopefully the man was getting a better night’s sleep than Mr. Collins.

* * *

_ Edward Couch, his mouth around the slender length of Robert Sargent’s prick, winces at the noise from his lover as he hears a single set of footsteps come to a halt outside his cabin. He looks up, frowning, but a look of chastisement is difficult to achieve when one’s mouth is full. Robert shrugs, looking down at him with a look of ‘Well what do you want me to do about it?’, and strokes his hair with a soft smile. Edward rolls his eyes, and feels his shoulders relax, as the footsteps continue on, pressing his tongue softly over the head of Robert’s prick with a sigh. _

* * *

Sir John strolls along, thinking cheerfully of what they would be having for dinner this evening. They had a little of the ox tongue left, which would be a lovely treat, and Mr. Wall had mentioned something about roast potatoes and cabbage; both of which would make fine accompaniments. He had invited the officers from Terror along for the meal, and hoped that Francis would be in a more jovial mood than when they had last spoken. Mr. Des Voeux’s cabin was next to Mr. Couch’s, and Sir John paused outside the room with a smile, his head resting to one side as he listened for any noise. He chuckled, softly, as he heard a  _ thunk _ and an  _ ow _ from within. The poor lad had hit his head. Odd, for he was not a tall man, but then the beams of Erebus were often treacherous to the foreheads of her men, regardless of height, or how accustomed they were to her. 

* * *

_ Charles Des Voeux’s head knocked back against the wall of his berth as he fucked himself. The thick, ivory phallus in his hand was slick with grease, pressing deliciously against the little bundle inside him that made him go cross-eyed. He was deaf and blind to the world as he worked, thrusting the phallus into his arse with abandon, huffing loudly as he wrapped his free hand around his prick and began to tug himself off.  _

* * *

It is only a few steps to Mr. Reid’s cabin - an Arctic veteran, the same as Sir John, and a sensible man - and Sir John hums quietly to himself, twiddling his thumbs behind his back as he stops outside the door for a moment. He cocks his head to one side, silently curious, as he hears voices on the other side. Once more, he cannot make out the words, but with a smile, he recognises the amiable tones of Lieutenant Fairholme. It was strange, for the lieutenant to be visiting Mr. Reid, but not unheard of. Sir John knew the two men were decent friends, and had much in common. He smiles to himself, pleased that the men are getting along so well; there is nothing worse than a crew who hold dislike for one another, after all. 

* * *

_ James Reid presses his lips to James Fairholme’s fundament, licking him open with single-minded determination and shoving his fingers in his lover’s mouth to quiet him as he hears a set of footsteps come to a stop outside his cabin door. James (Fairholme) is a talker, when he gets like this, and James (Reid) shudders to think what will happen if they are discovered. He teases at James (Fairholme)’s rim with the tip of his tongue, tracing light circles over the furred, puckered flesh. James (Fairholme) licks at his fingers, nibbling gently on them, then letting out a sigh of relief as the footsteps move on.  _

* * *

Next, on Sir John’s little expedition, is Lieutenant Fairholme’s cabin. He does not stop there, now knowing that the third lieutenant is otherwise engaged, most likely chatting to Mr. Reid about the state of the ice (Mr. Reid was, after all, the expert on such matters, and it warmed Sir John’s heart to think of Lieutenant Fairholme brushing up on their situation before dinner). After Lieutenant Fairholme’s cabin came Lieutenant Le Vesconte’s. A dear friend of James’, and an exceptional conversationalist. Sir John often took heart that - no matter how dire their predicament may seem - Lieutenant Le Vesconte and James would always have some cheerful, good-natured tale to tell. He stood, listening, outside of the lieutenant’s quarters, and let out a soft chuckle. He could hear the lieutenant’s voice, alongside the voices of Lieutenants Little and Hodgson. It was not clear what they were chatting about, but their tone seemed cheerful and bright, and Sir John thanked the Good Lord for such an excellent group of lieutenants, on both Erebus and Terror.

* * *

_ John Irving blinks up at the two men, his vision hazy with lust. Henry Le Vesconte and George Hodgson are grinning down at him, pricks in hand, and Edward Little is kissing the back of his neck gently, murmuring words of encouragement as he tugs firmly at John’s own cockstand. Henry kisses George fiercely, and the two men press their pricks gently against John’s lips. John licks at them with a peaceful sigh, his mind blank with desire, and grinds back gently against Edward’s prick, where it presses against his arse. All four men are trying desperately to be quiet, but George and Henry are born to talk; filth rolls off their tongues as John sucks them, and Edward keeps up a steady stream of whispered encouragement, telling John how well he is doing, how good he must feel. The room is filled with bright, shuddering words, as the men continue their work.  _

* * *

Sir John smiles, a kind, jolly thing, as he continues. Lieutenant Gore’s cabin is next to Lieutenant Le Vesconte’s, and there is a gentle shuffling noise from behind the door. Sir John stops, listening, his hands still clasped behind his back, and a cheery expression settles over his face as he hears the familiar toll of the Articles being read aloud. The lieutenant was a dedicated chap, and it made Sir John glad to hear him keeping his wits sharp and up-to-date with such recitation.

* * *

_ Graham Gore shudders, breathing out: ‘...shall conduct themselves in an orderly, faithful, honest and sober manner...God, Tom…’ as Thomas Hartnell swallows him down to the root and stays there, suddenly very mindful of the stilled footsteps outside the door. This had been Tom’s idea, to help still Graham’s nervous tongue in these ‘compromising’ situations, and it was working a treat. Tom looks up at Graham, eyes watering slightly as he holds his prick in his mouth. Both men are still, listening intently, waiting for the footsteps to either expose them or leave. Graham breathes out, the tension draining from his shoulders, as the footsteps head on. Tom swallows around him, pressing gently on his stones, and Graham continues to read. _

* * *

Sir John trundles along, back across the broad corridor, ducking beneath the ladder, and nods in satisfaction. All the men seem comfortably occupied, or asleep, and he is looking forward to dinner, which will be in less than an hour’s time. The last stop on his journey is the cabin of dear James, a shining beacon of enthusiasm and naval potential. He has often thought of the lad as a son, and he knows Lady Jane has as well. James’ cabin is just next to his own, and Sir John tenses for a moment as he hears the unmistakably Irish tones of Francis Crozier, and the rough voice of Mr. Blanky, come from behind the door. He listens, carefully, unable to distinguish any words, and raises an eyebrow in relief. The tone does not seem to be one of aggression. Their words are hushed, yes, but they seem pleasant enough. Sir John sighs, smiling happily; perhaps his second and third are beginning to get along. Perhaps Terror's Ice Master is providing some mediation. His second and third becoming friends! Now that _would_ be a treat - even more so than the meal Mr. Wall was preparing, and the fine company of the men.

* * *

_ Francis Crozier stills - his hand steady on James Fitzjames' prick - leans heavily on Thomas Blanky's chest; his voice quieting, as he hears the steady, pondering footsteps of Sir John pause outside the door. James stills as well, turning his head to stare at Francis and Thomas, his eyes wide and frantically nervous. Thomas grunts against Francis' neck, whispering for them to keep going or he'll fling the door open himself. Francis squeezes James’ prick, nosing softly at his collar, rutting against the soft curve of his arse. James whimpers, quietly, stuffing the neck of his jumper in his mouth and biting down. Thomas presses his fingers deeper into Francis' arse, grinning broadly as Francis clenches around him. James presses his arse back against Francis’ prick, grinding against the thick, hard line of it. Francis murmurs in James’ ear, dirty and low, praising him, urging him on as James fucks into his hand. Thomas growls, crooking his fingers roughly, making Francis bite back a shout. Sir John’s footsteps recede, off in the direction of his cabin, and Thomas shoves Francis and James against the door with a grunt, letting out a low, dirty laugh as they frig one another furiously to completion. _

* * *

Sir John hums quietly, a gentle rendition of  _ Brightest and Best _ , as he opens the door to his cabin. The table is set, neatly, ready for the evening’s banquet, and he hears a  _ thunk _ from his berth. 

‘Mr. Hoar! How are you, my good man?’ Sir John calls, perching on the sofa by the window, and folding his hands over his stomach with a satisfied sigh.

Mr. Hoar appears, his face a little flushed, and nods his head deferentially, ‘Perfectly well, sir!’ he says, his voice a little breathless, and Sir John nods with a smile.

‘Working hard, eh? Everything looks excellent, my boy, all is ready for this evening I take it?’

Mr. Hoar nods quickly, reeling off a list of the preparations he has made, and Sir John praises him for his endeavours, before sending him off to continue his work. 

Sir John settles happily, leaning back on the sofa and breathing out with a satisfied smile. It is always good to do his rounds, of an evening, for peace of mind regarding the men if nothing else. It was a relief to see them all getting along - Francis and James particularly - and he thanked the Lord for it; their situation would improve, so long as they all pulled together. 

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for all the character and ship tags! They're all just railing each other and need to be included.


End file.
